There is a moment where I wonder if they can see me, too. If they've noticed that, in squabbles, my light goes out. Or maybe they've seen a reflection in the lenses, some snitching lamplight against my binoculars. Studied hard and seen my darkened silhouette in my living room. Looked out their window just a little too long. It would only take one. I panic. But how could anyone pay attention that closely?
It isn't because they would see me. That they would even know. That I might be in some sort of trouble. The panic is in the possibility that all these nights I haven't seen anything real at all. That it's all been staged. A farce. Two people pretending, remembering a fight from years ago, going through the motions, changing a line there and a gesture there, all for my amusement. And that, all this time, I should have looked into someone else's window. Or, worse yet, turned on the light.
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